


A Thousand And Seven Miles In

by softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon and Ryan, and a day, and a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand And Seven Miles In

**Author's Note:**

> This is set slightly in the future, a smaller part of a greater story that Emily and I have been telling each other, about Jon and Spencer getting tired of the fact that even post-split, Brendon and Ryan are still incapable of talking about each other without fighting. Jon and Spencer put their collective feet down, and force Brendon and Ryan to go on a roadtrip with no end until they're friends again. Here's one day.

Brendon started singing somewhere in Ohio, where the freeway was long and endless, and there had only been fields on either side for hours. In front of Ryan, the road seemed to stretch on forever, shimmering at the horizon, the heat melting asphalt into water and then, after Ryan kept staring, sky. He wondered if anyone had ever actually reached a mirage, stood knee-deep in it. His thoughts felt as heavy in his head as the shimmering heatwaves in front of them. They'd turned the radio off a while back; there wasn't much reception to be found where they were. It wasn't really a surprise when Brendon started singing, low and absent-minded, humming words or whole phrases when he couldn't remember the lyrics, and Ryan knew that Brendon probably hadn't even realised he was doing it.

"Shut the fuck up," Ryan said.

Brendon snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, jaw clenched. Ryan wished Brendon wasn't wearing sunglasses. Ryan had accidentally left his in the motel last night. The glare was hurting his eyes, making red spots dance every time he closed them, making Ryan feel more tired than he actually was, and he wanted Brendon to suffer too. He wanted Brendon to see the mirage, the promised water, the endless potential of it. Ryan turned the words over in his head, considering.

"Will you stop making that fucking noise?" Brendon said.

Ryan didn't look at him. "What noise?"

"The huffy little sigh," Brendon said. "Every two minutes, Jesus. I don't even have to check the clock anymore, you can keep time by your bitchiness just fine."

"Whatever," Ryan said, but he held himself as still as possible, breathing through his nose even though it hurt his chest. Brendon glanced at him, face unreadable with the sunglasses on. He reached out and turned the radio on, twisting the knob until a voice became distinct through the static. Brendon made a smug little noise – Ryan had declared the search for stations useless a while ago – and settled back in his seat, as the talkback host thanked Ellie for calling. Then he welcomed Ben to have a big talk with him about how homosexuals were destroying America, and Ryan sat and grinned until Brendon finally snarled and admitted defeat, reaching and turning it off with unnecessary vehemence.

"Hey," Ryan said. "I was listening to that."

"Fuck you," Brendon said.

Ryan rubbed his face with his hands, palms rasping over stubble. He kneaded his knuckles against his closed eyes and then peered out the window again. The sun hadn't gone anywhere. "There any stories about water in the Bible?" he asked.

"Lots," Brendon said, and nothing else.

"Any besides Noah?" Ryan asked. "And, like, Jesus walking on it and stuff?"

"Lots," Brendon repeated.

Ryan folded his arms. "Fine, Christ. Sorry for asking."

"You doing a John Darnielle on everyone?" Brendon sneered. "Jon gonna tag along with that one, too?"

Ryan glanced at Brendon, and Brendon looked briefly ashamed, eyes darting away. Ryan opened the rental car's empty glove compartment to stare inside for the umpteenth time.

"We need CDs," he said. "For when the radio's not working. I'm gonna get some in the next town."

"Sure," Brendon said. "The Beatles for you, Peter Gabriel for me?"

When Ryan looked at him, Brendon laughed, short and sharp. Ryan stared at him, and the smile lingered around Brendon's mouth. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and Ryan knew that he was singing in his head. He wished he could tell Brendon to shut up when he did that, too, but Ryan hadn't lived in Brendon's head for a long time.

"I didn't say it like that," Ryan said.

"Yes, you did," Brendon said immediately. "You said it exactly like that, and you meant it exactly like that, and it's kind of funny, really, it's funny that you've made such an effort to distance yourself from everything you were when really you're exactly the same. You still think you can dismiss the rest of the world in a pithy line, you think the only complex thing in the whole wide world is yourself, and everyone and everything else can just be the hook in the third song on your album. And I'm not singing any more of those songs because I did grow up, but I'll sing the old ones, and I'll laugh, and you're the only one who knows why I'm laughing, you're the only one who knows that when I sing those songs I might as well be singing the stuff you're writing now, and that's why I'm laughing, and that can be a secret. And you fucking love secrets, so now we're both glad."

Ryan blinked. It was the longest thing Brendon had said to him in a year, and he didn't have anything to say back. He felt suddenly, acutely embarrassed, and he waited for Brendon to laugh or say something else, finish him off, but Brendon didn't do anything but drive, eyes on the road. He looked as though he hadn't said anything at all, fingers tapping idly, slowly on the wheel. His left arm was resting on the window, and Ryan had been watching it turn slowly pink for hours now, had been tugging the cuffs of his shirt securely around his wrists and watching Brendon's skin burn. By the time they stopped tonight it would be red. In a few days it would peel, like it did last time, and then Ryan would watch Brendon pick at it again for days, peeling long, clear strips off.

About an hour later they finally came across a sign of civilisation when Brendon pulled into a gas station. It was Ryan's turn to pay for the gas, so he went inside and bought a Diet Coke and a sausage roll as well, ate it standing outside so that the crumbs fell at his feet. He texted Jon with _am I ungrounded yet, mom?_ and when his phone buzzed a minute later he thought it was Jon replying, but it wasn't, it was a tweet from Brendon.

 _"oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver"_ , Brendon had written, and Ryan stared at it and looked back inside the store to the rack of sunglasses. Then he put his phone back in his pocket and went to the bathroom. He read the graffiti on the wall for Z, who collected good examples in photos on her phone, but there was nothing particularly interesting. He took a photo anyway and sent it off, and she replied a minute later with, _poor form, ross._

 __When he came back out, Brendon was talking on his phone, so Ryan walked around the building twice, trying to stretch the cricks out of his neck and back, ignoring a stony-faced man who came out and watched him suspiciously. Jon sent him a photo of Marley in response to his text, and Ryan ground his teeth before he caught himself and bit his tongue guiltily. The last time he'd been to the dentist, they'd told him that his teeth were unusually blunt for someone his age, and that he had to stop grinding them together, they were showing too much wear. It was a strange and hard thing to remember.

Brendon was still talking, palming the back of his neck and staring distantly out towards the horizon, and Ryan kept walking. His mouth felt dry from the heat and the sausage roll, despite the soft drink, and he could feel dust and the smell of gas sticking to him with every step. Eventually he went and sat in the car, closed his eyes and rested his head back against the rest.

Brendon tapped on the window about five minutes later, and Ryan wound it down, surprised. "What?" he said.

Brendon still had the phone pressed to his ear. "Spencer says hi," he said.

Ryan blinked. "Hey, Spence," he said, and Brendon nodded, straightening.

"Ryan says hey," Ryan heard him say as he walked away.

"Wait!" Ryan yelled after him, and Brendon turned around, though he didn't come close enough that Ryan wouldn't have to call across the distance. "Can we go home now?"

Brendon regarded him blankly for a moment, and then reported, "Spencer says no." He walked away again, and didn't come back for another fifteen minutes, when he got in and started the car, drove away without saying a word.

Ryan must have fallen asleep; when he woke up, he was stiff and sore and it was dark outside. Brendon was in the middle of a yawn, and his jaw cracked as he did it. Ryan rubbed his own jaw and the movement must have attracted Brendon's attention, because he looked down a little bit and nodded, a sort of acknowledgment. Ryan rubbed his eyes, and wished he had coffee, wished he had thought to bring a thermos.

The clock on the dash was blinking 8:30 in the dark. They'd had an early start that morning, the motel kicking them out before eight. "We should stop soon," Ryan said. "Why haven't you stopped?"

"We haven't passed anything," Brendon said, and Ryan wondered briefly at this forced proximity, this roadtrip with no foreseeable end, the impossibility of avoiding that constant, mocking _we_. He checked his phone, but there was nothing new. Most of his friends had stopped keeping in contact a while ago, either forgetful of the need to keep him company, or bored of the complaints they received in response.

There wasn't any reception just then, anyway.

"Should have asked someone at that gas station," he said, deliberately avoiding the pronoun, any pronoun.

"Yes," Brendon said.

"D'you know where we are?" he asked.

"Vaguely," Brendon said. "I mean. It's the same freeway. It's not like we're lost."

"But you don't know where we can stop," Ryan said, and Brendon shrugged. He still had his sunglasses on. _Asshole_ , Ryan thought, and said, "We should switch, you've been driving a long time."

"No, I'll be alright," Brendon said.

"Well, I don't want to be driven off the road," Ryan said, and Brendon drew his shoulders up higher, slightly curved line of his back through his t-shirt radiating fury. His shoulder blades were jutting out through the cloth. Ryan could see the individual knobs of Brendon's spine, and he wondered what it would feel like if he dug his fingers into the spaces between, pressed them in as hard as he could, and he wondered what sound Brendon would make.

"I said I'll be alright," Brendon said.

"Maybe you'll do it deliberately," Ryan said.

Brendon laughed, clearly startled. "What?"

"Maybe that's what appeals to you," Ryan said, and this was what he should have said earlier today, he could feel it building in him, vicious and satisfying. "You're the fucking poster boy for that kind of thing, poetic 'cos it's not poetic, pretty but maladjusted ex-Mormon kid who's made a success of himself but can't have a conversation with his family that doesn't end with his dad yelling and his mom crying, closet case who's scared shitless of every single thing in his life, including himself." Brendon was staring at him, eyes hidden by his sunglasses but mouth parted, and Ryan was almost panting, the words coming out of him precisely, tasting far better than anything he'd eaten in weeks. "You fit it gorgeously, you've got to admit it," he said, "except for the bit about success, that wasn't you, you never would have done that, would never have made yourself anything, it was me, I got you where you are. You'll turn off the road and go down quietly but with fucking _perfect_ dramatic irony."

Brendon was still staring at him. Ryan touched Brendon's cheek, gently pushing his head back to the centre, straight on position. "Eyes on the road," he said, and Brendon swallowed hard.

"You're such an asshole," Brendon said, voice low and shaking. "You're such an asshole, I hate you so much."

"Great," Ryan said. "Great, me too. What track is it gonna be on yours?"

"Fuck you," Brendon said, very quietly.

"No, fuck you," Ryan said, hands shaking where they were clenched in his lap. "Fuck you, I wanna know. Is it gonna be a real subtle one? You can tell people it's about a story you read, or made up, whatever, but I want to know which fucking chorus _I_ am, too, that's the secret I want." Brendon drew in a breath and opened his mouth but Ryan cut over the top of anything he might have been about to say: "And then I'll be glad, that's when I'll be glad, not a fucking moment sooner."

 _"I didn't write it," Brendon said._

 _"Bullshit," Ryan said._

 _"Please just stop talking," Brendon said._

 _"Fine," Ryan said, "suits me," and he shut up, folding his arms and sinking back into his seat, turning his head to stare out his window. The night was too dark to see much beyond the lights of the freeway flashing past, though, and Ryan ended up staring at his own reflection in the window, pale and tired and untidy. He could see Brendon, too, and in the window he looked at the line of Brendon's throat, the way his hair curled very slightly around his ear. It was getting too long again, Ryan thought, Brendon seemed to prefer a shorter cut at the moment, short hair and that grey sweatshirt that made him look young and clean and happy. Ryan thought, _pretty and maladjusted_ , and wanted to tell Brendon what else he was._

After a little while, Brendon took his sunglasses off, and Ryan realised that Brendon had been watching him watch Brendon, and now Brendon was openly staring at him in the dark window, the both of them gazing at each other's reflections. Ryan didn't look away; he was already caught out now, and he kept thinking about old stories, and Medusa.

"I don't think we're gonna find anywhere to stay tonight," Brendon said, softly.

Ryan nodded. "Take the next exit," he suggested, and Brendon did, spinning them off onto a side road and then another, until he found a place they could pull over undisturbed.

"I think there's blankets in the back," Brendon said, and Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out, wincing at the pins and needles darting up his legs. The trunk popped open when he reached it and he glanced back at Brendon automatically, though Brendon wasn't watching him anymore. There was, sure enough, a thin red blanket folded neatly in the trunk, and Ryan took it out and went back around to the passenger seat. Brendon was busy winding his own seat back, as horizontal as he could make it.

"There's only one blanket," Ryan said, "but it's pretty big."

Brendon nodded and Ryan wound his seat down as far as it would go, before toeing off his shoes and struggling to get comfortable, legs dangling uncomfortably over the edge. He rolled from side to side, back aching, and Brendon spread the blanket over them, letting it dip in the gap between the seats, but Ryan kept shifting restlessly, head aching, eyes sore.

"Cut it out," Brendon said, but without any real venom.

"Sorry," Ryan said, and they both went still, and quiet. Ryan closed his eyes and wished for sleep, but he felt sore and unhappy and stretched thin, too anxious to sleep again. He opened his eyes again, wondering, but Brendon lay still and peaceful, his face smooth.

"Brendon?" Ryan whispered.

"There's John the Baptist, obviously," Brendon said, without opening his eyes, "and he was the guy who baptised people to cleanse them of their sins, and Jesus asked to be baptised by him. And John tried to refuse, because Jesus was so much greater than him, but Jesus insisted, and then there were doves and things, you know, and God spoke directly to them."

"Okay," Ryan said, staring. Brendon still wouldn't open his eyes. Ryan felt greedy, looking so much.

"But really, I think Noah is what you're looking for," Brendon said, and yawned. "You're a shitty ex-catholic schoolboy, you know."

"I already know Noah," Ryan said, ignoring this last. "I want something new."

"You know King David?" Brendon said, small and sleepy now. "As in David and Goliath? Yeah, well: when he decided to make Jerusalem his capital – he was really into conquering places – it was occupied by the Jebusites, and there was a great wall around it, and it was impenetrable and impossible. But David discovered the secret tunnel underneath the city that led into the centre of it, and that was how he and his troops got in."

"Why was there a secret tunnel?" Ryan asked.

"Bringing water," Brendon said. "Into the heart of the city. They stole in with the water."

"Oh," Ryan said, and Brendon sighed a little and burrowed down further into his seat. Ryan closed his eyes and lay still, trying to sleep. He was hungry, he realised, but in a dull, distant way. The blanket was scratchy; not uncomfortably so, more interesting. Ryan slid his hand along the edge of it, smoothing his fingers over the coarse thread, and then his hand bumped against warm skin. Ryan didn't open his eyes, and he didn't move, but he left his hand there, smallest finger linked with Brendon's, and eventually he slept.


End file.
